Headache
by Lonely time traveler
Summary: During the investigation, Sherlock is attacked by a criminal and he sprays him with a gas cylinder in the face. Inhaling the gas, Holmes faints. It turns out, that his the brain damaged and Mycroft, wanting to save brother, gives immediate order, to part of so same brilliant brain Moriarty transplanted Sherlock. But who will Wake up in this body?
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was climbing the stairs to the second floor with catlike footsteps. Watson followed as quietly as he could. From time to time the parquet creaked treacherously under him. The doctor paused for a split second, trying to see if someone was approaching from the darkness. The nerves of both were strained to the limit. The man's heart was beating in his stomach. His mouth was dry and his legs felt heavy. Yet John followed his friend. The detective had already pressed himself against the doorjamb and peered cautiously through the half-open door of the room.

At that moment heavy footsteps were heard. Bracing his weapon, holding it with both hands just above his knees, Watson leaped the distance between himself and his companion and pressed himself against the wall opposite. His breath was coming out of his chest. The man was afraid that this criminal will hear them and will run away or will start shooting. He looked at his comrade's face. It was obvious that the detective was too nervous, but he tried to hide his own fear.

Sherlock, suddenly, rushed into the room and threw himself on top of the unknown, trying to twist his arms back. But the culprit dodged and threw Holmes Junior off with a powerful blow. Stunned, John grabbed his attacker by the jacket and tried to punch him in the back of the head. The offender contrived and gave him a powerful blow. Watson felt his legs give way, and his vision swam. He fell to the floor. After a moment, her vision was restored, but her attempt to rise was unsuccessful.

His body refused to obey. He saw his friend come to grips with the criminal again and hit him in the side, and when he turned around – in the stomach. The stranger's speed was noticeably slower. He also returned a couple of blows, but they were not as accurate and powerful as before. Holmes advanced, deftly evading his opponent's attacks. Suddenly, the weakened enemy snatched a canister of concentrated gas from his bosom and sprayed it in Sherlock's face. The detective coughed and fell to the floor with a crash, and the stranger, taking advantage of the moment, disappeared from sight.

"Bastard," John croaked, and with all his strength he lifted his head from the floor and turned slowly, painfully. His gaze fell on the body of a friend lying nearby, " Sherlock, can you hear me? "

There was no answer. Then his heart skipped a beat in fright. Through the pain, the man rose from the floor and hurried toward him. Holmes was unconscious.

"Damn-damn-damn!" the doctor whipped his phone out of his jacket pocket and quickly dialed the emergency number. He undid the buttons of his shirt to free his friend from his breath-choking clothes, " Please don't die…"

* * *

"Don't say that word! Mycroft's voice broke into a shout, "Nothing is impossible! What do you want?"

"A brain transplant is necessary," one of the surgeons replied, looking down at the floor, frantically considering how best to explain the situation, " the Damaged areas, unfortunately, can not be restored…"

"So, do it!"

"But where…"

"That's none of your business," the man hissed, "your job Now is to save the life of my head – mad brother!"

He turned to Watson, who was standing against the wall. He had no face, only big brown sad eyes, and his hands were shaking so that a glass of cheap coffee splashed on the floor. The man simply stared blankly into space.

"It's going to be all right," Mycroft said.

"Er-it's my fault…"

"What?"

A tear trickled down John's cheek, leaving a faint trail on his face. My soul was torn apart, my head was foggy, my legs felt like cotton, and my heart ached as if a thousand needles had been stuck in it.

"I told him not to," the man's voice was choked and hoarse, " I-I didn't want to go there, but he wouldn't listen. He said he wouldn't wait for Lestrade."

Tears rolled down his cheeks at intervals by muffled sobs escaped from his throat. He could no longer contain the pain that tore at his heart. Holmes senior looked at him contemptuously, сurling his thin lips, and said dryly:

"When he recovers, you tell me all about it," giving Watson another cold look, he added, " in the meantime, go home. No need to shed tears here."


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was setting behind the clouds, and its last crimson rays were slowly disappearing behind the roofs of the houses. Large drops of rain began to fall heavily on the asphalt and on the head of John, who walked with his eyes on the ground and did not notice what was happening around him. His hands were still shaking, as if in a fever, and his thoughts were confused. He still did not believe that his precious friend was now on the verge of life and death. And all because of him!

The man hesitated for a few minutes at the front door of his own house. In the end, as soon as he had overcome himself and finally stepped over the threshold, he was face to face with Mrs. Hudson. He was ashamed to look into her eyes. What would she think of him? That he couldn't protect his own friend? John stood motionless, his eyes darting from side to side, carefully avoiding the woman's gaze.

"Sherlock…" his voice broke treacherously here, and she realized how hard it was for him to speak, "Sherlock is now in a very serious condition."

"Oh my God!" Hudson grabbed her heart and nearly fell.

"His brother said everything would be fine and you know," he breathed in noisily, clenching his fists, "I want to believe that. No, I believe it. He'll ... he'll get better."

Finding the strength to smile tightly, the man dropped a dry "sorry" and slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor. Very reluctantly, John entered the empty living room. The furniture, the reddish Wallpaper, the pile of books on the bookshelves, the two armchairs, the dirty cups of tea on the table – everything inspired an involuntary melancholy, there was something cold about everything. On the kitchen table, as always, were rows of assorted bottles and test tubes.

Watson sank heavily into his chair and closed his eyes. Silence hung in the air like a web that no one could break. The minutes dragged on for a long, long time… Now the emptiness flooded the world, seemed irresistible. On psyche was hard, viscous. Moral self-torture led to a dead end. The waiting tormented him and drove him mad.

"John, I've brought you some tea," Mrs. Hudson said timidly, stepping softly into the living room.

"To hell with your tea."

"Careful with your expressions! And actually... it's chamomile tea with lavender. You need to calm down and come to your senses."

"I don't need any tea; I don't want anything. Leave me alone," his voice was weary and impassive.

The woman walked over and sat down in the chair opposite him. She looked him in the eye, tough and intent.

"Stop this circus, John," she said, a hint of annoyance in her voice, "You've been through a war and a lot of things that not everyone can stand. And now what? You are limp, spread out on the chair and like a young lady engage in self-examination! Pull yourself together, rag! Our Sherlock won't just die, not him."

The doctor's eyebrows rose at the statement. He was staring at her in shock, and now he was trying to regain his composure.

"Oh, I'm sorry. That was too rough, wasn't it?" she hesitated for a moment and looked away.

"Just a little bit" the man took the сup of tea from her hands.

Little by little his features assumed a calm expression, and he fell into a reverie. His soul was in pain, and now the soul itself was crying so strong and fragile at the same time.

"I keep thinking that... if only I hadn't succumbed... if I'd insisted, we wait for Lestrade. Now would..." smiled sadly, "now would he sat across from me and complained that he was bored again."

"You know, John, I'm going to tell you something, and you're going to draw your own conclusions. Remember that there is only one thing that you should not waste moments of your life on — regrets about the past." the woman said calmly, "Everything has already happened. Nothing can be changed."

Mrs. Hudson saw the pain in his eyes, but at the same time there was that unusual fortitude which he had possessed from the first day of their acquaintance. She knew that no matter what she told him, this man with a wounded heart and soul, could never forgive himself for this oversight. Even if Sherlock was all right, and even more so if he died.

"I think I had Belgian chocolate somewhere. Think, with tea will most the. Come with me, I'm buying."

* * *

_**Indefinite time later**_

He slowly opened his eyes, not quite sure if he was really awake or stuck in a never-ending nightmare. Blinked, adjusting to the dim light and trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. Around - crushing, deafening silence. The door creaked, and a tall, middle-aged man entered the room, his bearing and gait showing a certain quiet confidence in his own dignity.

"My dear brother is awake. How do you feel, does your head hurt?" the man who entered asked with a tight smile on his thin lips.

"My head didn't hurt until you came here," with that, Sherlock closed his eyes wearily, "When will I be released from here? My brain... my mind is rusting in the walls of this room!"

"Speaking of which," Mycroft walked unsteadily to the bed where his brother lay, "tell me honestly, how do you feel? Nothing bothering you?"

His voice, which expressed deep emotion, was different in tone from his usual. This detail did not escape the bored mind of Holmes Junior. Sherlock opened his eyes slowly and studied his brother's tense figure with interest.

"Is there any reason to worry?"

On first glance, nothing has changed, smile all also played on their mouth's men, but something subtle has changed. Mycroft stared at him; his thick brows drawn together.

"Rejoice," he said suddenly, ignoring the question, " Tonight, you will already go back to your cozy nest to dear Watson."

In response Sherlock merely chuckled.

"Little Johnny must have cried his eyes out while you were gone."

Holmes the younger started and looked up at him with an excited expression. There was a flicker in his brother's eyes, a grin on his face.

"Get ready," said Holmes senior, " your Princess has been waiting for you."


End file.
